#this was supposed to be 500 words

[casuallyscreaming]

He knows Toge is capable of handling himself, but he can‘t shake the uneasy feeling he has about knowing that Toge is about to walk into what is potentially going to be the biggest disaster that Jujutsu society has faced yet. Yuuta is hit with the sudden urge to tell Toge that he’s in love with him. “Call me,” he says instead. “Promise?” “Shake,” Toge promises. ----- Yuuta types out a text to Toge. Then he deletes it. Types. Deletes. Types. Deletes. Types. Sends. From: Yuuta

I’m in love with you. He doesn’t wait for a response. He stopped hoping for one months ago.

A spoiler-free post-shibuya inuokko fic with a healthy amount of angst. 7.4k words

[ddagent]

superhero/supervillain au

Aziraphale/Crowley | Superhero AU | FR12 | 1,643 words     Crowley, obituary writer and supervillain, is brokenhearted. It's not every day you fall in love with a superhero. It's not every day that superhero doesn't love you back. I hope you enjoy! The title comes from 'Clark Kent' by Sub-Radio, my favourite band. Please check them out - they're amazing!

Clark Kent didn’t have to put up with this shit.

Groaning, Crowley clicked his fingers, stopping time just as his alarm went off. However, that also meant being stuck in a bubble of time with the same three notes of the Radio 2 jingle. Another click, and Crowley was awash with the sound of drive time radio and the noise of the London streets outside his Mayfair flat. He got up and showered before his misbehaving powers left him with more damp sheets (an indoor rainstorm, you pervert, he hadn’t thought about the Angel like that in…hours). Crowley stood underneath the spray and did his best not to weep. He did not succeed. Clark Kent didn’t have to put up with this shit. But, then, Clark had fallen in love with someone in his real life. He hadn’t been having meaningful, homoerotic conversations with Lex Luthor for the past twenty years. Fuck.

Showered, dressed and angry, Crowley slammed his front door behind him (causing a minor earthquake in the process) and headed off to work.

His usual morning routine involved paper, coffee, the occasional bank robbery if he was missing his Angel. Today, however, Crowley did not make it past paper. At the newspaper stand he frequented on the corner, he was immediately accosted by the front page of The Observer. A glossy, full-colour photo of the Angel, in his white suit and golden mask – his wings, a trademark of the Celestials (that utterly ridiculous and obnoxious band of superwankers) were tucked just out of view. It had finally made the press that the Angel was replacing the Archer as head of the Celestials, leading them into a better and brighter future.

Continue Reading at AO3

[mandiemegatron]

(ʸᵒᵘ ᴹᵃᵏᵉ ᴹᵉ ᴰᵒ) ᵀᵒᵒ ᴹᵘᶜʰ ᴸᵃᵇᵒᵘʳ

ᵀʳᵃᶠᵃˡᵍᵃʳ ᴸᵃʷ ˣ ᶜᶦˢ!ᶠᵉᵐ ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

ᴺᵒᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ ᵇᵘᵗ ᵃⁿᵍˢᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ, ᶠᵒˡᵏˢ!

ᴿᵃᵗᵉᵈ: 1８+, ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ ᵖʳᵉˢᵉⁿᵗ. ᵁⁿʳᵉᵠᵘᶦᵗᵉᵈ ˡᵒᵛᵉ, ᴸᵃʷ ʰᵃˢ ᵃⁿ ᵉᵐᵒᵗᶦᵒⁿᵃˡ ᵈᵉᶠᶦᶜᶦᵉⁿᶜʸ, ʸ/ⁿ ᶦˢ ᵉᵐᵒᵗᶦᵒⁿᵃˡˡʸ ᵗᵃᵏᵉⁿ ᵃᵈᵛᵃⁿᵗᵃᵍᵉ ᵒᶠ.

.𝕄𝔻ℕ𝕀.

Songs to listen to while reading ;

Labour // Paris Paloma (main)

Cynical // twocolors, Safri Duo

Never Go Back // Dennis Lloyd, Robin Shulz

As always, a huge smooch to my beta @moss-woods , couldn't have done this without you 🥺💖💋

Tagging ; @bby-deerling , @icy-spicy , @kazieai , @guilty-sugar , @buggyandthebartoclub 💖

It was never a tedious thing for you, to love Trafalgar Law the way you thought he deserved.

The soft brush of your hand over his shoulder as you brought him tea and a snack, the encouraging whispers of praise whenever he finally completed a particularly heavy weighted task on his already overloaded mind -

The soft smiles that he knew you reserved for him, and him alone.

It was new and strange to him, the way your eyes met his would make his heart skip a beat to the point he had to stop looking at you for a few days, secluding himself in his office with menial tasks just to take up the time.

When he finally emerged, you were standing right beside his door, a small stack of papers for him to sign and log in your palms with that same, gentle smile on your face.

His brain stopped, a primal urge rising in him as he rested a warm palm on your cheek, his thumb caressing along your skin lovingly. There were no words, just a shared stare of inner turmoil that he finally defeated by pulling you into a rough kiss.

Pulling you into his office, he shoved everything off his desk, a hazy desperation washing over him as he pulled you to him and seats you on his now empty desk. Tattooed fingers rip at your clothing, pulling the boiler suit down and off your beautiful body and dropping it off to the side as your own shaky fingers pull at his spotted pants.

You were almost shocked as he slaps your hands away, ripping his own clothes off into a pile next to your own, not giving you a single moment to think as he suddenly plunges a finger into your already soaked warmth. The low grumble that echoes in his chest sends shivers over your skin as your eyes fall shut, a moan leaving you as he adds a second finger.

His other hand slaps over your mouth a little too harshly, your eyes opening in pain to stare up at the glassy amber eyes of your Captain.

“Stay quiet,” he murmured, pressing an almost too soft kiss to your forehead as you give a slow nod. “Good girl.”

It was nothing but pure ecstasy for you, finally being under him the way you'd been dreaming of since you joined his crew. Your hands wander over his tattooed chest, fingertips grazing his pert nipples and pulling a soft hiss from him as his fingers curl upwards inside you.

Your mouth drops open as you squirt over his hand, eyes screwed shut as wave after wave of pleasure ripples through your body. They only snap open when you feel him tease your entrance with his cock.

Your eyes meet and there's a strange look on his face. He leans over you and presses a harsh kiss to your lips, his teeth biting at your bottom lip until he moves down, teeth nipping and lips sucking at your throat, leaving blooming bruises behind.

As he finally enters you, his name falls from your lips and one of his hands covers your mouth again. You're not upset by it, thinking you were just too loud again. He grinds his hips into yours slowly, his voice faltering as he quietly gets out, “Taking me so well, you're so good, so good…”

When you reach up and wrap your arms around his shoulders, something in him changes. He turns almost stiff under your touch, even as your lips press butterfly kisses to his jawline and cheek. In a flash, he's quick to take what he wants, his face buried in your neck as he grunts and groans softly into your skin.

You were so close to an actual orgasm, so close to falling from the edge when he suddenly pulled from you, furiously fisting his cock over your stomach and painting it in his sticky whites. He breathes heavily over you, unable to look you in the eyes, even as you raise a loving hand to brush his hair from his forehead.

You ignore the way your heart tugs when he pulls his face from out of your reach.

He grabs his shirt and cleans you off, tossing the soiled shirt off to the side as he murmurs, “Go wash up.”

You slowly gather yourself, worry seeping into your skin as you begin to ask, “... Law? Are you-”

He stops you by pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head. “Just go wash up.” He repeats, still unable to look at you.

You sigh through your nose and gather your clothes, getting dressed in record time and reaching up to press a quick kiss to his jawline.

He, again, stiffens under your touch.

You frown slightly and finally leave his office for him to clean.

You bite back anxious tears until you reach the shower room, glad no one else was using any of them as you move towards the back. You turned off the furthest shower, stripping naked once more and tossing your clothes onto the small bench off to the side.

The second the hot water hit your skin, you began to sob. Something was wrong with what just happened and for some reason, your brain wouldn't let you process it. You finally gave the man you loved every inch of you, but somehow, you felt used.

It felt wrong.

You weren't sure how long you were in the shower for, not even noticing the water had gone ice cold. Your face was pale and sad as you turned the handle, the icy spray finally stopping its onslaught to your already frozen skin.

Wrapping a fluffy towel around you, you picked up your clothes into a bundle under your arm and padded off to your shared room with Ikkaku, opening the door and letting it shut behind you as you flopped face first onto your bed.

“Girl, what is with you?”

You turned your head to the side to see Ikkaku looking down at you with a worried expression.

“Are you sick? Do you want me to grab-”

“No!”

She jumped slightly as you shouted at her, panic and anxiety written in that one word as you slowly sat up onto your knees. You wrapped your cold hands around your just as chilly arms and whispered out brokenly,

“We…. Ya know….”

A surprised gasp came from Ikkaku and she shook you slightly by your shoulders, a wide grin on her face as she joined you on your bed.

“Ooo, you've been waiting for this! Well? How was it?”

You gave her a look that made her brows furrow. “... Oh god, was he that bad?!”

Your lips ticked up slightly as you gave a soft snort, shaking your head as you murmured,

“He was just… I don't know. It didn't feel like his heart was in it.”

Ikkaku's warm hands picked up your frozen ones, holding them to her chest as she asked softly,

“Not the way yours was?”

Tears pricked at your eyes as you nodded, falling forward into her now open arms, cradling your body to hers. Her hands gently rubbed over your back as she shushed you gently.

“It's okay, Y/N… it's okay.”

You somehow sobbed out,

“I love him.”

Ikkaku shushed you again, holding you tightly as she replied,

“I know girl, I know…”

The Polar Tang rested at a quiet island, swaying slightly with the waves. Most of the crew was on the island grabbing supplies, while a few stayed behind to watch the ship.

It had been three days.

Three days since you gave yourself to your Captain, heart, mind and soul.

You haven't seen him once.

Even when you tried to bring him his usual cup of tea, his door was locked and there was no answer behind it.

You were half-way through lunch prep when Shachi comes into the kitchen, leaning comfortably on the metal island as he watches you cut vegetables.

“Hey.”

You look up, slightly shocked that you were so into your thoughts that you didn't hear him come in.

“Hey! What's up, Shachi?”

There's a deep frown on his face, eyes watching you intently under his shades as he says,

“The Captain wants to see you.”

Your heart almost stops.

A small smile ticks up your lips as you breathe out,

“Finally. I was starting to think he hated me or something.”

Shachi gives you a wavering grin in response, motioning for you to follow him with a movement of his head. You place your knife down and rip off your apron, tossing it aside, following behind him quietly.

When you both make it to Law's office, Shachi is quick to pull you into a tight hug, sniffling softly as he murmurs,

“No matter what happens, we love you.”

You pull back in shock, your face confused as you ask,

“... what the fuck does that mean?”

Shachi sniffles and presses a quick kiss to your forehead before opening the office door and pushing you into it. You give an indignant shout in response, grunting softly as you finally turn as you take in your Captain.

He sits quietly at his desk, his hands clasped together on top of the mahogany wood comfortably. He stares you down, the look in his eyes unrecognizable as you sit in the chair opposite his, your own hands clasped and resting in your lap.

“Y/N.”

Your heart breaks at the way he says your name without the usual suffix at the end.

“... Captain.” You reply softly.

Law internally winces at the way you speak. He gives a heavy sigh, taking his hat off and plopping it on the desk before running a hand through his hair. He's clearly looking for the right words to say, causing you to watch him with a slowly breaking heart.

“... Y/N, what we did… that was a mistake.”

Your eyes immediately filled with tears.

“I shouldn't have taken advantage of you like that. You have my sincerest apologies.”

You sniffled, crossing your arms over your chest as if to protect your shattering heart.

“I don't have feelings for you like that, and I don't think I ever will. You are my subordinate, I am your Captain, and that's how it has to stay.”

You were silent for a long while, angry tears cascading down your cheeks as you thought about everything that happened between you both since you joined.

None of it mattered.

“Y/N?”

Slowly, you lifted your head, your eyes meeting his and for the first time, you saw shock wash across his face. He sat back in his chair slightly, unsure of what to say.

After a few moments, you stood, making your way to the door when he stopped you with a soft,

“Y/N-ya?”

You froze in your spot, pure fury rushing through you as you spun around and spat out,

“Fuck you, Law. You knew, you fucking knew, and you still took from me. That's all people like you do, is take, take, take, until people like me are left with NOTHING. I gave you my EVERYTHING, and IT STILL WASN'T ENOUGH?!”

You were shouting by the end. A small smidgen of pride washed over you at the look on Law's face, obviously not expecting you to snap at him like this.

“I loved you, I bent over backwards for you over and over, I did everything you asked of me and more, and yet even when I finally give you my body and my soul, you essentially tell me you don't care? You don't want me?”

Angry tears rushed down your face as you poured out your heart to him. His eyes had moved to his desk at some point, physically unable to look at you as you verbally tore him apart.

“That's fine. Enjoy your fucking karma, you fucking bastard.”

You ripped his door open and slammed it shut behind you, your boots slamming against the metal floor as you ran to your room. Reaching under your bed, you pulled up your duffle bag and began filling it, shoving everything you had into the bag until it was almost unable to close.

You didn't want to risk bumping into anyone with your bag so you opened the porthole window in your room, looking down and sighing happily when you saw your window was above the wooden dock. Tossing your bag out the window, you were just about to jump out and down when your door ripped open, a very anxious looking Law standing there watching you with wide eyes.

“Y/N-ya, don't do anything stupid!”

He took a step into your room and you gave him the middle finger, snarling at him,

“Eat shit, Trafalgar.”

You jumped.

You didn't look back up as your name met your ears, shaking off the tingling in your legs from falling from a decent height. You pulled your bag over your shoulder, kicking your feet into high gear as you suddenly hear,

“Room!”

You watch the soft blue bubble slowly surround you and you move as fast as you physically can, giving a shout of anger as you pop outside of the bubble right as you hear,

“Shambles!”

You spare a glance behind you, seeing a few boards from the dock missing, papers from your room now floating down into the water below. You shake your head slightly and continue running, ignoring the pain in your now ex-captains voice as he shouts for you again.

“Y/N-ya!”

You kept running until his voice was out of earshot, your angry and hurt tears nearly blinding you as you ran into a densely forested area. You were wiping at your eyes when you bumped into someone, falling back onto your ass with a shout of pain as your palms dug into the grassy ground.

“Oi! Watch where you're going, you brat!”

Your watery gaze looks up and you're shocked to see the redheaded Eustass Kid, one flesh arm and one metal crossed over each other on his massive chest.

It takes him a second, but he grins wickedly as he barks out,

“Well, if it ain't Trafalgar's little bitch! What the hell are you doing here?”

He cackles at the dark look you give him, slowly standing and brushing yourself off as you pick up your bag from the ground.

“Fuck you, Eustass. I'm not his bitch, and he's not my Captain. Not anymore, at least.”

Kid sneers down at you.

“The fuck does that mean?”

You sniffled and rubbed at your face angrily before tossing your bag over your shoulder and attempting to walk past him.

“It means what I fucking said, are you deaf?”

A heavy hand angrily pulls you back and your back is pressed against rough bark, Eustass’ scarred face inches from yours as he leans down to bark again,

“What the fuck does that mean?”

You glare back at him as you bark back,

“It means he wants nothing to do with me. It means, he took what he wanted from me and it still wasn't enough. He doesn't give a FUCK about me.”

There was something in Kid's eyes that flickered at your words. He gently puts you back down, leaning back up as he watches you rub at your eyes again.

He's silent for a few moments before he replies,

“Come on.”

You gave him a wary look.

“... why?”

Eustass only replies with a wide grin, cackling loudly for a moment before commenting as if speaking about the weather,

“I hate seeing gorgeous women cry.”

Your cheeks burn at his words, your mouth opening to snarl back a reply when you suddenly are stopped by him continuing,

“That and it's gonna get dark soon, you're not gonna wanna be here when it does. But that's up to you, brat.”

He begins walking away as he shouts over his shoulder,

“I could always use strong fighters on my crew, but if you wanna die out here like a dog, that's on you.”

You stare at his back, confused and anxious as your hand tightens around your bag strap.

You weigh over the pros and cons of leaving one pirate crew for another, especially ones from the Worst Generation.

It takes you only seconds to pull yourself together and run after him.

For an entire 24 hours, the entire crew minus Bepo search the island high and low for any trace of Y/N.

Law is furious as he paces in front of the Polar Tang, arms crossed as he waits for his Den Den to ring with news that someone had found you.

When night finally fell, Law continued to grow anxious, checking his pocket watch (a gift from you which now wretched his heart whenever he looked at it) and giving a grunt in irritation as he stared down at his resting Den Den. He pokes it gently to wake it up, the snail's eyes blinking tiredly up at his master before frowning.

“Call her.”

In an act that shocked Law, the Den Den slowly turned away from his owner and went back to sleep. The Heart Pirate Captain stood in utter confusion and slowly growing anger, he manually picked up the receiver and dialed Y/N's Den Den.

His heart sank lower and lower as it rang and rang, the soft peru-peru-peru echoing in his head.

His heart jumped when there was finally the soft click-clack of someone picking up the other end and Law quickly asked,

“Y/N-ya? Please, I'm sorry-”

He stopped as a familiar voice came through.

“Captain…”

Angry tears pricked at Law's eyes as he hissed out,

“Bepo?”

The mink sniffled on the other end before sobbing out,

“... She left her behind.”

Law slammed his own receiver down a little too hard, causing his Den Den to give a low hiss in pain. He rubbed at his face with a shout of irritation, huffing to himself.

He lifted his face at the sound of boots crunching into the gravel, hope rising in his chest as he took in the boiler suits coming closer to the Tang.

His heart drops as Shachi shakes his head once he's close enough, clapping a heavy hand on Law's shoulder as he murmurs,

“She's gone, boss.”

Law sighed softly through his nose, finally accepting the fate of his ex-crewmate. He picks up his Den Den and walks back into the Tang, ignoring the questions or comforting words from his crew.

In the silence of his room, Law holds a silly drawing you did of you both, a rare smile on Law's face in your art that pulls at his heartstrings. He smooshes the paper to his chest for a moment before placing it aside, sitting up and immediately meeting his black Corazon jacket resting in the chair you used to take up.

“... Cora-san…” he murmured as he rested his elbows on his knees, his face falling into his palms as he quietly asks,

“What have I done?”

[goayda]

The Secret

So what if… in a Steddyhands AU where everything is FINALLY going well between them, Izzy realizes that he is pregnant and he feels... actually sad, because he is sure it’s not going to last because, c’mon, he is too old for this, even if their lives are much easier now. So he doesn’t say anything to anybody because why make them worry about it? The ‘issue’ will surely disappear soon anyway.

But weeks go by and he is just starting to show and Izzy panics because he still thinks it’s not going to go to term, but soon it will be impossible to blame the roundness on too many of Roach’s cakes and he doesn’t want Ed and Stede to get excited about a baby and then see their disappointment and their heartbreak when everything ends too soon.

So Izzy lies and tells them he needs to go to land alone to attend to some personal matters about a long-distant relative and it sounds like bullshit so Stede and Ed keep asking questions and try to convince him to let them go with him, but Izzy doesn’t budge. So he promises everything will be fine and that he will be back ‘soon’ and without telling anybody, he goes to Jackie’s because she is the only one he can trust with this.

And weeks go by and Stede and Ed receive a few letters from Izzy via Karl saying things are going well, not to worry, that he still needs a bit more time on land.

And they do worry, of course, but there isn’t much they can do since they don’t even know where Izzy is. So they just keep waiting.

Then one day Karl brings a letter signed by Jackie simply saying: The baby is coming, get your arses here right now.

It’s very confusing and for a moment they think that maybe Jackie was trying to reach somebody else, but then Buttons says that no, she is probably just talking about Izzy’s baby and... chaos ensues.

So apparently Buttons had been getting updates on Izzy’s pregnancy from Karl, but he had said nothing because, well, it was not his secret to tell and Ed and Stede can understand and respect that, but Stede has to physically restrain Ed for a while to stop him from strangling the man.

Then the crew and the captains throw overboard anything not essential to reach port as fast as possible and they make it there in record time.

And despite Stede’s calming efforts Ed is ready to yell at Iz for hiding this from them, but when they get to Jackie’s, Izzy is in bed, looking exhausted but happy and holding a tiny baby in his arms. And the baby has Ed’s hair and Stede’s eyes, which doesn’t make sense, but who the fuck cares.

So there is no yelling, but there is a lot of happy crying then.

[sapphicshitandsuch]

3 and 15 :)

Yennefer meandered rather slowly through the corridors of Aretuza, her footsteps echoing against the stone floors. Her reappearance after Sodden had made for a strange day of both warm welcomes and hostile, suspicious glances, and as the sun set for the evening, she yearned for the solitude she would need to recenter herself. 

Especially after her reunion with Tissaia. The memory of the morning’s events replayed in her mind, each detail burned into her brain. She had expected a measured, distant reception from the Rectoress, perhaps a few words of acknowledgment, maybe even a brief inquiry into her well-being.  

But what she received instead had been far more overwhelming. 

Tissaia had embraced her, taking her by complete surprise at the sheer emotion of the gesture. The sincerity in her reaction, the intensity that shone brilliantly in those sapphire eyes undid something tightly wound within her. 

And then the words were exchanged – she had been so open and vulnerable in a way that Yennefer had rarely known her to be. It was as though a wall had come down, revealing a side of Tissaia that Yennefer had only ever caught glimpses of in fleeting moments.  

She had thought her feelings for the woman to be mere relics of her school days, when she had admired the Rectoress from a distance, mistaking her affections for respect. But those feelings had been reignited with a force that was impossible to ignore in the events leading up to Sodden. Like her own flames, those events had burned away any pretense Yennefer might have held about the nature of her emotions. She cared for Tissaia in a way that went far beyond admiration. 

And now, after that morning’s interaction, it felt as though those emotions were threatening to spill over entirely. The thought of Tissaia – of how easily she had undone Yennefer’s defenses with a single hug – left her feeling horribly vulnerable. It was all almost too much to process. 

Even now, hours later, Yennefer shook her head, trying to clear the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. She needed a moment to breathe and sort through the tumultuous feelings that had resurfaced with such force.  Decompressing in the bathing pool seemed to be her most appealing option. It was a luxury she had scarcely taken advantage of as a student, having always been too self-conscious of her deformities to fully enjoy the experience. The thought of being so exposed to the gazes of others had always outweighed any relaxation the water might have provided. 

Upon entering the room, Yennefer’s senses were immediately greeted by the enchanting warmth and tranquility of the room. The steam that rose from the water was infused with scents of lavender and jasmine, filling her lungs and instilling an instantaneous sense of calm. But the moment was short-lived as she caught a glimpse of the neatly folded robe on the far ledge of the pool, and a quick glance at the water told her she was not alone. 

There sat Tissaia, submerged to her shoulders with her eyes closed, head resting back against the ledge. She appeared more serene and unguarded than Yennefer could ever recall seeing her. Silently, Yennefer turned on her heel, aiming to make a quick escape before the other woman noticed her presence. She hadn’t taken more than two steps towards the door before Tissaia’s voice broke the silence. "Don't leave on my account, Yennefer. The water really is quite divine."  

Yennefer’s heart jumped to her throat at Tissaia’s invitation.  She swallowed, trying to maintain her composure, as though one of her oldest fantasies wasn’t playing out in front of her very eyes.  Free from the constraints of its usual elaborate chignon, her chestnut hair was loose, damp, and slicked back behind her bare shoulders. The older woman was clearly naked beneath the water’s surface, and Yennefer was glad that her eyes were still closed so she couldn’t see the way violet eyes lingered perhaps just a little too long. 

“No, ah... Sorry.  I didn’t expect anyone else to be here at this hour.” Yennefer muttered awkwardly, trying to muster her usual confidence as she fumbled for a response. Despite her refusal, Yennefer could not break her gaze of the skin that was exposed—the elegant curve of her neck that swooped to meet her shoulders, the hollow dip at the base of her neck, and delicate collarbones, all glistening with drops of water.   

"Nonsense. I insist." Tissaia opened her eyes now, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Unless you fear my presence will be too distracting?”  

“Do not flatter yourself, Rectoress, I believe I can manage.” Yennefer scoffed dryly in response, perturbed by the trace of amusement in Tissaia’s voice. Her trance was broken as her eyes snapped away, heat rising to her cheeks at the prospect of having been caught in her staring. Distracting – what in the world had she meant by that? Perhaps she had imagined it, but there seemed to be a challenge hidden in Tissaia’s response. And Yennefer was never one to back down from a challenge. “I simply did not wish to intrude on your solitude. But if you insist. You may be the distraction I needed after today’s chaos,” 

Feeling self-conscious for the first time in ages, Yennefer hesitantly approached the water’s edge, feeling the weight of Tissaia’s gaze intensely.  As if she had sensed her discomfort, Tissaia wordlessly turned her back, granting Yennefer a moment of privacy. Grateful for the gesture, Yennefer quickly slipped out of her gown, the cool air making her shiver as she swiftly slid into the pool. She settled across from Tissaia with a soft sigh, the initial awkwardness dissipating with the soothing warmth of the mineral-enriched water. “I must admit, you’re right. This is a rather nice reprieve from the vultures that have been circling me all day.”  

“Yes, it seems your reappearance has caused quite the stir." Tissaia chuckled softly as she began wading towards her. Yennefer could feel her pulse rising with anxious exhilaration the closer she got, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Tissaia's approaching form. As Tissaia drew nearer, her gaze fixated on a mild scratch marring Yennefer's shoulder, one the younger woman couldn’t even recall obtaining. The sight of it seemed to trouble her, and silently, tentatively, she reached out her hand. Yennefer's breath hitched as Tissaia's fingers lightly brushed against around the reddened skin. She muttered a soft incantation, watching with satisfaction as the edges of the cut pulled together. But even after the scratch had vanished, she did not remove her hand, fingers gently trailing across Yennefer’s shoulder and down her arm. The sensation sending shivers down Yennefer’s spine, and she felt an odd mix of relief and longing when Tissaia finally removed her hand, her touch leaving a lingering warmth. Tissaia's proximity and the ambiguity of her gestures was both comforting and maddening. 

"I know I’m repeating myself, but I am profoundly glad to see you alive and relatively unharmed," Tissaia said, her voice soft and filled with an emotion Yennefer couldn’t quite place. "I never thought I would see you again." 

Yennefer's heart clenched at the sincerity in Tissaia's words, the vulnerability she was displaying catching her off guard. She struggled to find her voice in the face of such an intimate confession. "I'm ... sorry.” 

"Whatever for?” Tissaia's eyes softened, and a smile pulled at the corners of her lips again. One of her hands came forward to brush some stray curls out of the younger woman’s face. Yennefer cursed the way that her breath hitched as Tissaia’s fingers combed through her scalp and brushed against the shell of her ear.  She was certainly close, but was Tissaia leaning in slightly closer than was normal? Did her eyes linger just a fraction longer on Yennefer’s lips? Was it her imagination, or did Tissaia’s hands linger a moment longer than necessary? Every detail was relentlessly analyzed and dissected for hidden intent.  

“You’ve endured ordeals that few could withstand since Sodden. My girl, your strength and resilience never cease to amaze me." 

The younger woman swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat, choosing instead to focus on the only other thing she could, which was the woman in front of her.  Had she ever seen the woman with her hair down? She didn’t think so; it was a stunning sight to behold.  She found it mesmerizing how perfectly it seemed to frame the sharp features of her face. She watched as one of her eyebrows twitched upward and realized with muted dismay that she had once again been caught staring.  

"I’ve never seen your hair down.” She responded much more coolly than she should have been able to manage, opting to change to subject to something lighter. “Tell me, are you giving your scalp a break, or did you just lose all your hairpins?” 

"Contrary to popular belief, my hair is not glued permanently into place. It likes to breathe every now and then." Tissaia’s features twitched with amusement, her words carrying an undercurrent of warmth with her retort.  

“Well, it suits you.” Yennefer assures, lips curling ever so slightly. Then she chanced, “I can see why you keep it so firmly contained when you teach. I wouldn’t have learned a thing during your lessons. It’s quite the distraction.” 

Before Tissaia could respond, the sound of laughter and approaching footsteps echoed from the entryway, and Sabrina entered, followed closely by Triss.  

Yennefer instinctively took a step back, her smile tightening as she tried to steady her nerves. Objectively, there was nothing unbefitting about the way they had been positioned when the others entered. But the way Tissaia’s gaze seemed to ignite her skin – even more than the warmth of the water – made their proximity feel far less innocent. 

"Yennefer, welcome back!" Triss called out cheerfully, beaming brightly as she strode toward them.  

As Triss perched on the edge of the pool, dangling her feet in the water, Sabrina joined them in the pool, greeting the both of them with a grin.  Tissaia’s foot brushed against Yennefer’s under the water as she shifted out of Sabrina’s way, the touch light and seemingly accidental. But Yennefer's heart skipped a beat, and she abruptly pulled her foot back and put a few more inches between them. 

Sabrina stretched out with a groan of delight. "This feels utterly divine."  

Yennefer nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt a foot graze the side of her thigh. Her eyes darted to Tissaia. 

“Indeed it does.” The Rectoress responded with a thoughtful hum. Her expression remained neutral, but Yennefer caught the flash of amusement in her eyes, and her mind reeled. Had she done that on purpose? Gods, did Tissaia know what she was doing to her? 

"However, loathe as I am to leave, I have a few matters that require my attention this evening." Tissaia declared, with finality, giving Yennefer a strange jolt of both relief and disappointment. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.” 

All three of the younger mages bid her a good night in return, and Tissaia regarded each of them with a brief nod of her head, though her gaze lingered just a little longer on Yennefer before she rose. The raven-haired woman watched intently as Tissaia gracefully stepped out of the pool. Unable to look away, violet eyes traced every movement as the droplets of water cascaded down her back. Her gaze traveled slowly up Tissaia’s body, from her ankles, past her toned calves, creeping up the backs of lean thighs until Tissaia pulled her robe on with practiced elegance, effectively covering the rest of Yennefer’s view. 

As the Rectoress turned to leave, she paused, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint as blue eyes met violet one last time. "And Yennefer," She purred, her voice infused with an unmistakable hint of flirtation, "I hope you find tonight’s distractions to be just what you need." 

[auntiejohn]

how the flip do I write an artist analysis

[lighthouseshepard]

ahhh been too afraid to pm you but hi from a silent mutual!!

writing prompt: john and yorick chat while arthur sleeps :))

HI HELLO!! im also always too afraid to pm everyone! thank you so much for sending this in and so sorry it took me a while! been a very busy few days (:

"Is he fully asleep, my king?"

John groans in annoyance among the relative darkness he'd been sulking within. Ever since Arthur's eyes shut once he fell into an exhausted, heavy slumber nearly thirty minutes prior, he'd been reluctant to try and exercise what little muscle control he possessed to squint them open again. Manipulating those muscles usually woke him regardless of how careful he was, leaving him with a splitting headache neither of them could explain. And at the moment, John couldn't bring himself to disturb the hard won sleep, as fitful as it was.

Yes, he's asleep, he hisses impatiently. Yorick's voice came from somewhere to their left, still attached by the chain threaded around their waist. Arthur's right arm twitches, fingers scrabbling for some imaginary thing, before falling still.

"Excellent," says the skull. "Our master requires much rest after that entire ordeal."

Our master? John snorts. The subtle stirrings of a cool night's breeze brush against the skin of his left hand, welcome after the wet, stale air of the cave. He's your master, not mine. 

"He is master to both of us!" Yorick exclaims, far too loudly. "Just as you are a king to him and myself. An inseparable pair, the dies irae, intertwined inexorably, dominion over one another and all else."

Jesus fucking Christ, John mutters, wishing he could wince. What does that even mean?

“Exactly as I said. Would you like me to repeat it?”

No, no. Can you quiet down? You're going to wake him.

“Certainly, my king.” His reply drops to a tone only slightly less loud than before. 

 And stop calling me that, he adds irritably. I'm not a king.

"You were once a king," Yorick states matter of fact, jaw clacking solidly as he speaks, a peculiarly troubling imitation of human life. "I do not see the issue with proclaiming this."

Once, he emphasizes. I'm not... I'm not that being any longer. I don't claim to be any kind of ruler anymore.

"Fair enough! What shall I call you if not a ruler, then?" 

John, he grinds out, the last droplet of water among the barren desert of his patience threatening to dissolve. John is fine.

"Alright," Yorick says, sounding pleased. "King John, how may I serve you?"

John heaves a haggard sigh. Unbelievable, he groans, and attempts to turn his attention away for a brief, blissful second to collect what surely remained of his sanity.

The thing that called itself vanguard spoke incessantly. Within the caves, climbing out into rain-damp earth and sky, walking to find shelter for nightfall in the hopes of catching at least a few hours sleep - it had not stopped talking the entire way. John had half a mind to untangle Yorick from Arthur's belt when he wasn't paying attention and throw him as far as his eyes could see. He'd never liked the thought of the vanguard anyway, had never wanted Arthur to take the head, keep the tooth. Something about a creature which existed simultaneously in the Dreamlands, the Dark World and their own reality never sat well with him. 

A hypocritical perspective, possibly, considering. Yet that similarity alone made him nervous, straddling a razor's cautious edge. He knew what he was capable of. Yorick remained a mystery.

They'd found an oak tree, its canopy stretching out far enough to provide cover from the last stray rain clouds rolling by, so long as Arthur kept curled at its trunk. He had fallen under almost immediately. One or two words exchanged between him and that damned skull, and he was out, John's name half formed on his lips in what sounded like the start of a question. It would likely be forgotten upon waking. Already Yorick was taking time meant for him.

Regardless, John knew him to be valuable, an asset they couldn't afford to get rid of. Certainly not now, with nothing to their names except the clothes Arthur wore and the bag he carried, no money, no food. If Yorick could be a wealth of information like he claimed, they'd have to put up with him a while longer. 

And then John could toss him into a lake.

In the stretch of thankful silence, Yorick apparently finally listening to his demands, he reaches over and inspects what remained of the wound. Dried blood coated Arthur's wrinkled shirt close to his heart, stiffening the fabric. Laying his palm flat and hesitantly across his chest, John takes solace in the flighty pulse tangibly felt there. Not too long ago there was none at all.

Arthur murmurs something wordless under his touch. John retracts his hand quickly, mildly guilty at having potentially disturbed him.

“You dislike when he sleeps,” Yorick says. Despite his position by Arthur's hip, rolled sideways where he'd come to rest as they laid down on dry grass, his voice still seemed to come from somewhere else around them. 

John waits a second for more to follow. Nothing comes - it's a statement, not an inquiry.

I don't dislike him sleeping, he huffs. He has to rest, obviously.

“Yet it troubles you regardless? The absence of him.”

I don't, John sputters out, struggling to keep his voice level. I'm not… lonely if that's what you're suggesting. Will you just shut up already? We're both going to wake him up at this rate.

“Our master is blind to the world in multiple senses of the word,” says Yorick. “Deep within a dream. He will not wake for some time.”

How do you know he's dreaming? he asks, perplexed. You can't… see into his mind, or-

“I know a great many things.” Another beat of silence, decorated by the cricket song in the surrounding brush shielding them from view. Again John waits for an explanation, growling agitatedly when none is forthcoming.

Such as? he prompts. What is he dreaming about? 

“I do not know the specifics,” clacks Yorick. “Yet I'm aware of the turmoil of his thoughts. There is a string of piano keys tied like wire around his ankles, a bathtub overflowing, a yellow sun-”

Okay, I get the specifics! John mutters. So a nightmare, clearly.

“Precisely! Excellent conclusion, King John.”

He was starting to immediately regret accidentally adding John to that title. Is there a way we can help him, then?

As if on cue, subconsciously aware he was being discussed, Arthur lets out a low, pained breath of air. Instinctively John’s hand jolts to attention, fingers delicately skimming the wound like he would find answers or assistance there. His legs were twitching, again his arm reaching and then recoiling from something John couldn’t see or understand. 

Nightmares were the only times he felt useful, whenever Arthur slept. Lingering in the corners of his mind, stuck between drifting into his own thoughts and keeping an active listen for anything that might hurt them while he was out - it wore him down in ways be couldn't explain. Yorick was right, even though John would rather revisit the Dark World than admit it. He did hate when Arthur had to sleep for the emptiness it left him with. Being able to wake him from a bad dream as soon as he caught the signs left him aware of a strange, disjointed sense of selfish pleasure. Even if it came at the risk of Arthur’s unhappiness, helping him out of a nightmare was one thing he could do consistently right.

“He will not wake until the nightmare is complete,” Yorick says nonchalantly. “He is too deep.”

Which will take how long?

“I know a great many things,” he says for the second time. “Yet this, I do not.”

Another whimper, softer than the last. John taps the side of his head, tugs at his shirt collar, goes so far as to flick his nose multiple times in a row, as hard as he could manage. Nothing caused him to stir. He could slap him, sure, but in this state he might break apart altogether.

Great. John heaves a sigh. So we just have to listen to this, then? Until he’s, what, done dreaming?

“That is correct. We could always pass the time discussing, my King.”

Discussing what? He snorts. The maggots we just crawled through? No thanks.

“Or,” Yorick adds, “you could always return your hand to his chest.”

What? 

“Your hand,” he repeats, jaw clicking knowingly. “It is the one thing which calms the dreams. I’ve witnessed it many times before.”

You didn’t even have eyes, then, John says sardonically. What could you possibly have witnessed?

“I have no physical eyes now, but I can see you and the master. I was aware then, and in a way, I am aware now.”

In the shrouding blackness of Arthur’s slumber, John imagines the two points of white light where the prince’s eyes once rested staring sideways up at them, awash in tendrils of green smoke. Was this how Arthur felt all the time, kept in the dark, left to wonder how everyone was looking at him? 

Carefully, he puts his hand back in the center of Arthur’s chest. Fingers splay out, one wooden pinky, the rest a thin collection of bruises and scars and broken, chipped nails. That fidgety pulse returns, a bird’s caught wing under his palm. The rhythm remains so for nearly a minute, stuttering and jumping to some melody John couldn’t follow along, and he’s about ready to give it up for nonsensical, stupid advice before he hears Arthur sigh.

It’s not the same troubled exhale as before. This one comes calmer, more even-keeled. As he focuses on his heartbeat he notices it begins to slow, calming bit by bit into a steady, softer pattern. Arthur’s movements drift to a halt. He shifts among the roots, mumbling something too quiet to comprehend, and eventually falls silent.

“He sleeps much like the dead in appearance,” Yorick states thoughtfully. “I believe the dream has come to a close, for now.”

Good, remarks John, at a loss for anything else to say. He wasn’t going to tell Yorick thank you; but it was tempting. The gentle rise and fall of Arthur’s breathing is a placid current, subtler than the new rain beginning to break through the clouds overhead in the night. He could plainly picture him, sprawled out uncomfortably, breeze touseling sweat damp hair, a downward curve in a mouth which always seemed to be frowning lately. Protected just enough beneath the oak, protected enough beneath John’s palm.

Well, at least one of us is content.

“I am much content, King John.”

That makes a total of two. Can you please shut the hell up now? 

“If that is what you wish," the skull says amicably. "Then I will."

It is, John bites. Just thirty minutes of fucking silence. Please.

Yorick says nothing. Relief settles over him as the break distends. Minutes pass until he finally accepts his desire had been properly observed. Crickets sing around them once more.

Sleep well, he whispers, hand firmly over heart. Perhaps we can wait a little longer to get rid of him.

[amoremagnificentbastard]

WIP Whenever

Second time in a row someone tags me in one of these and I actually have something to share day of? Who am I?

Thank you, @busy-baker.

Tagging @slothquisitor, @1waywardbirdlane, @kittenintheden, and @mutualcombat, if y'all would like to share!

[apocalypse-shuffle]

light work w/ JASON•T & DICK•G

this is part of the “long overdue” series

Jason follows a ways behind Nightwing in silence right after they’ve flung themselves over the first building.

Pretense of playful riffing over and done with there’s just…nothing.

Nothing to talk about - or too much to pack into their relatively short journey from The Hill to the cave - and nothing to do but focus.

He swallows down the stiffness in his throat when the thought that a different less tainted less damaged him and Nightwing would’ve made a game out of this. Joked with each other. Laughed.

The reflection he catches of himself in the window of a yellow cape catching the air makes him cut that whole string of thinking.

Jason lands on paved stone in silence and watches Dick get another swing in before activating his coms. The separate unit could only be used sparingly (too easy to attach onto the frequency) but Jason wouldn’t need it to work that long.

He rolls his left ankle, testing the stiffness while waiting for his contact to pick up. It’s mild at best. He’s sure he wouldn’t have even noticed it until he was in his apartment if he hadn’t dropped so specifically as to not catch Nightwing’s attention.

Jason’s just gotten on the line with one of “his people”, a runner who he only bothered to remember the name of because they’d stay useful, when Nightwing finally catches on that it’s only one grapple he’s hearing.

The man retracts his grapple and does a series of flips to land on a roof four buildings away. Jason absentmindedly rolls his eyes while instructing Mensa on what cache to slip into. He’ll have to burn that safe house but he needed out of the area anyway. The clock tower was gone but that didn’t negate the fact that people now thought of The Hill as implicitly bat territory.

He’s instructing where he wants Mensa to leave his equipment when Nightwing finally decides to come over to him despite the way Jason cuts a hand through the air to wave him off.

“Bats, I swear,” he grunts. He tests his ankle one more time to get rid of the crink and watches Nightwing run over.

“What?”

He has enough time to turn his head and prattle off: “Nothing. Just do what I said.”

The vigilante lands in front of him nearer the edge of the roof from Jason’s position in the middle as the call disconnects.

“But you didn’t say anything?”

The other’s voice lilts upward at the end and Jason schools his face, letting himself scoff. He runs his hand through his bangs to swipe the com unit out as he does so.

“Course I didn’t, I couldn’t choose just one.”

Nightwing lets his head tilt, still lost but not nearly as much as he’s letting on. Jason answers his unspoken question anyway.

“They’re not enough words in the English lexicon to describe how annoying you are, Grayson. I got distracted.”

He doesn’t wait for whatever playact his reaction will be, throwing himself off the building and shooting his line in a slightly altered direction.

Of course Nightwing follows him but it’s not like Jason can’t work around his tag along.

He doesn’t start talking to him again but the man’s gaze setting his back on fire feels even more analytical than his words would have.

Jason grumbles to himself about it but is otherwise perfectly content to let the problem be one of the future. Preferably not his future, but when has Jason ever gotten what he wants?

Jason would never let the other know, but the face he makes when Jason drops down to the street a few blocks later and there’s conveniently a helmet sitting all snug for him on a bus bench is kind of worth the harassment.

He has to tamp down with his jaw until he slips the apparatus on so he won’t laugh right in his face. The helmet’s speaker systems keep his mirth strictly for Jason’s ears only.

His shaking probably gives him away regardless, but he covers it up by letting Nightwing come to his own conclusion that Jason is only taunting him.

And his conclusion’s not wrong per say but - you know? - Jason’s not going to tell him that.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed! This takes place in between part one and part two before the guys get to the Cave.

I’ma be honest with y’all I don’t know if the clock tower was located in The Hill during War Games but I do know that I’m tired of looking for the answer. It doesn’t matter anyway I can do whatever the fuck I want.

Is this a little more than 500 words? Yes. But I made the rules and as such I can break them.

Edit: edited this bitch and now it’s 700+ words ????? (pretend it’s 500 tho)

also leave a comment I like them, I just won’t respond cause this is a side blog

[arrowofcarnations]

Ooo!!! “Fucking someone so good that they struggle to kiss you back” for Coops?

Hohoho. Oui.

Have some married Coops fuckin' in the Olympic Village on this fine Wednesday.

(Rating: E)

Character credit to @lumosinlove <3

~~**~~**~~

First of all, the bed breaking wasn’t Remus’s fault.

Yes, he did shove Sirius down bodily onto it before all but tearing his clothes off; sure, he didn’t hold back when he took his favorite seat, giving Sirius most of his weight as he opened himself up with two-then-three efficient fingers right there on Sirius’s lap. He’d own up to partial responsibility for the incident—after all, he was the one who sank down onto Sirius’s dick and rode him hard enough that the cheap mattress’s springs squeaked their displeasure—but it wasn’t his fault. What choice did he have, really, after playing an Olympic hockey game against the love of his life?

His entire body felt like it was on fire as he braced his hands on Sirius’s (strong, so strong) bare chest and worked himself down until he was filled. Twin groans broke the quiet of the tiny room; Remus spared half a thought for Sirius’s neighbors on the other side of the shared wall, but Sirius’s hands flew to his hips, gripping tightly, and all he could think about was getting more of him, taking more.

A desperate Re! from underneath him made him throb. No teasing, no warmups, no bullshit—he hit his stride in seconds, setting a quick, ruthless pace that made lights pop behind his eyelids and reduced Sirius to a begging mess on the thin cotton sheets.

"So—fucking—" Remus cut himself off as a grind of his hips pressed Sirius just where he needed him and all he could do was moan. "Annoying, shitfuckrightthere."

"Me?" Sirius said incredulously. Remus could feel the gallop of his heart beneath his palm; the adrenaline of the game was still hot in their veins, pulling them together like magnets the second they'd walked out of their respective locker rooms. "C'est impossible de te prendre le palet."

Despite the accusatory tone, Remus felt it wash over him like the praise it really was. He brought himself down harder, pulling a whine out of Sirius that the neighbors could probably (definitely) hear; he took one hand off Sirius's chest and tried to touch himself, but Sirius caught his wrist lightning-quick.

"Non." All the weight of the captaincy was held in that one quiet command. Remus shivered immediately; his neglected cock dripped onto Sirius's stomach. "Over too soon. That's not what you want, loup."

He was, damn him, absolutely right.

He let Sirius draw him down for a sloppy kiss by the nape of his neck, and clenched around him just to taste the sound he made. "Want you," he said, leaning back again so he could fuck himself down onto Sirius the way they both liked, ignoring the bedsprings' protests. "Your goal in the first, Sirius..."

"Your breakaway," Sirius countered, breathing hard as he stroked Remus's flanks. "You're so fucking fast, Re. Got away from Tremzy. Got away from me."

"Never," Remus said, a little nonsensically. His grin felt stupid, lovestruck, even to himself. "With you always, baby."

He wasn't expecting Sirius to push himself up to sitting, keeping Remus in his lap with a hand on his lower back. His noise of surprise was muffled by Sirius's lips on his, as was his yelp when Sirius took him by the hips again and started to bounce him on his cock.

"Oh god," Remus cried as he broke the kiss to tip his head back and close his eyes. "Yes, yes, yes, like that!"

Anxiety, excitement, exhaustion, soreness—everything he'd felt throughout the day faded into the background until all he knew was pleasure, as thick and warm as Sirius's body was where it wrapped around him completely, surrounding and filling him all at once. He splayed his knees a little farther, Sirius brought him down hard, and he swore he was coming without so much as a finger on him.

"Baby," he managed—maybe a warning, maybe a plea. "C-coming, oh!"

His head spun as Sirius looked down between them, then up at his face and said, "Not yet. Feels that good?"

"Yes!"

"Want more?"

"Yes, Sirius, I swear to—"

This, in Remus's opinion, was the final nail in the flimsy Olympic Village bed's coffin: Sirius grabbing hold of him, rolling him onto his back, flipping him onto his belly and pulling him back onto his cock. A high, sharp cry broke loose from Remus's chest as he scrambled to get his forearms and knees under him while Sirius slid home. He could hardly stand how good it felt when Sirius started to move, could hardly stand the litany of praise washing over him in both English and French.

"So—fucking—good." Sirius punctuated it with snaps of his hips that stole the breath from Remus's lungs. He was going to come; he was going to sob; he was going to die if Sirius stopped. He sank right under to the rhythmic smack of the headboard against the wall, down so deep that nothing existed in the whole world except the feeling of his husband's body holding his, the smell of his sweat, the sound of his perfect voice behind and above him as he said things like "gorgeous, Re" and "you're amazing out there" and "wanna play with you forever."

He'd completely forgotten about his own cock, but Sirius hadn't; a few tight strokes was all it took to make his orgasm slam into him for real this time. Sirius doubled over while fucking him through it to try and catch him in a kiss, but Remus couldn't do more than moan against his lips as wave after wave of pleasure wracked him.

Up this close, Remus felt like he was drowning in a pool of silver as their eyes met. He was breathing like he'd just come off a double shift. Sirius was still hot and hard inside him, and Remus's brows pitched in a wordless plea. Sirius pressed a sloppy kiss to his cheek, weighing him down just enough to stretch Remus's orgasm out to the very last dregs as his hips moved in quick, shallow thrusts, then slow, erratic ones as he gave Remus the last thing he wanted.

When Sirius finally pulled out and rolled onto his back, the bed creaked; when he coaxed Remus down to lay on his chest and Remus gave him (and the mattress) his full, afterglow-heavy weight, a distinct crack-snap was followed by the half of the bed that was underneath them hitting the floor as the frame gave, while the other half valiantly hung on at its normal height, sending the two of them rolling off onto the floor.

They stared at each other in shock for a moment, and then there was nothing to do but laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

Maybe it was a little bit his fault, but technically, it was Sirius's room (that Logan had blessedly been kicked out of for a few hours), so it was his name on the fine that was eventually mailed to their house. But Remus, being a kind and loving husband, offered to split the cost.

[feyres-divorce-lawyer]

surety

Ao3 SquidgeWorld Word Count: 1,599 For @sjmromanceweek Day Two: Traditions

The noon sun that had provided reprieve from unusually chilly breezes was now setting behind, the dying light painting the forest clearing canary. He and Feyre had set out before lunch, wishing to make the most of their day before heading back to Rosehall.

They’d ridden east, the pool of starlight their first destination, spending hours lapping its surface, then hours more simply resting on its bank, his head in her lap as she painted, occasionally feeding him the boysenberries they’d packed. They started back on their route after she’d finished, her spry hands quickly hiding the painting from his seeking eyes. Later, she’d murmured into the kiss she’d used to distract him.

Tamlin, leaning against the tree he’d tied his horse to, stared at her now. She was still astride, her silken hair glowing burnished gold under the sunset, the strands not tied back falling in her face as she reached to pet her panting horse. The white, brown-spotted mare turned her head basking in the praise after helping Feyre win their impromptu race.

She gave a few final strokes to the mare’s mane before making to get off, and he winnowed to her side, hands reaching to help. Feyre looked down in surprise and smiled at his antics.

Mother, she was beautiful.

“What?” she whispered, cocking her head, blue-gray eyes roaming across his face.

He swung her up and over, arms tightening as he didn’t set her down completely, not wanting her any further away. “You’re beautiful.”

Her smile became mischievous. “So are you, m’lord.”

He decided to play along, resting his forehead on hers. “Oh your beauty is incomparable, my lady. You possess the face of a poet’s muse, the softness of your hair is an owl’s envy.” Tamlin looked down. “Your lips…”

He heard her breath hitch, all traces of mischief dashed as the space between them became heavy with desire.

“My lips?” she prompted, tilting her head as she leaned closer.

Tamlin suddenly thought his actions far superior to words and closed the minute distance between them. They parted when breathing became difficult, and he finally let her down but kept his arms banded around her hips. Feyre beamed up at him, looking every bit the incomparable marvel she was.

“I have a gift for you,” she said.

Tamlin perked up, itching to see what she’d made this year. Their outing was an annual one, a day he always made time for after Feyre had reminisced about a mortal holiday for love, named after a saint of some sort. He’d found it peculiar at first, not understanding why a specific day was needed for love, as if it was not to be celebrated every day. The pure joy on Feyre’s face as she told him how she and her sisters, before misfortune struck their household, would be each other's saint of love for the day, though, was all he needed to make sure she could keep the tradition, the gift giving along with it.

Tamlin’s gift this year had been extending her painting room. He’d noticed the room getting more cramped with completed pieces the times he’d been invited in, whether to model or admire, and had started calculating what it would cost to expand the space. With the Court still in recovery from the five decades of desolation, it was a project Tamlin knew could take years. The seven years of planning, though, had been worth the expression on Feyre’s face when he revealed the renovation at dawn. There were many times he wished he had her talent and ability to visually capture moments, and the sight of her then had been no exception.

Tamlin had been looking forward to her gift since he first saw her mixing her paints. Flora sprung beneath their feet as his magic leaked with his excitement, anthuriums and azaleas covering the ground in a blanket of red and pink. Feyre shook her head and laughed. “You’re so impatient, like a puppy.” Besotted like one, as well, he thought.

She tried to move his arms away and, instinctively, his body refused to budge from hers. “Tam, the painting is in my coat pocket.”

Oh, right.

He released her, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head in slight embarrassment. Verdant eyes watched in hawk-like fashion as Feyre brought out her canvas and magically resized it to its original dimensions — she’d shrunk it when she’d finished the piece; a smaller size allowed ease of movement and concealment. Her hands shook as if in fear and worry spiked Tamlin’s heart. Before he could even move to open his mouth, Feyre quickly turned the painting around, and the sight rendered him speechless.

The background was a setting he’d seen a million times: Rosehall in all its glory. His mother’s gardens were so vivid, that he absentmindedly wondered if Feyre had found a way to seal them on canvas. What truly caught his breath, however, were the five people in the foreground.

Five. He immediately recognized himself and Feyre, both of them were standing as she rested her head on his chest, his left arm around her waist, and his right… His right hand was placed on the shoulder of a girl in the middle of the painting. She looked to be on the edge of adulthood by Fae standards; soft cheeks that were shedding that child-like roundness, the blunt points of her ears that were just starting to form the sharp peaks of mature High Fae ears.

On both sides of her were a boy and girl, who upon further inspection were twins. They were true younglings, their heads barely reaching the older girl’s knees. All three had glaring similarities: golden brown hair, though the boy’s was the darkest of the trio by a shade or two, the older girl and boy’s sparkling blue-gray eyes, while the youngling girl’s were a bright evergreen, and finally the shape of their mouths, a shape he could trace blind.

Tamlin’s head snapped up to Feyre standing resolutely, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Are you-” he rasped, voice suddenly hoarse.

“N- no,” Feyre stammered, “but-”

She cut herself off, and fidgeted, anxiously shuffling her feet. A moment later he felt a brush against his mind, Feyre’s daemati magic kindly asking for entrance. He let her in, knowing she only resorted to mentally speaking when physically overwhelmed. The act had been a crutch before, when they were both horrible at talking to each other and Feyre had found arbitrary conversations far easier. Tamlin thought them past it now, so he knew the severity of her emotions at the moment if Feyre was reverting to old habits.

I’m not pregnant, she started, but I want to be.

Oh, he thought

A month ago, one of my older archery students, Aria, you know them.

He did. Over the last three decades, Feyre had founded monthly art and archery classes that quickly gained enough students to make them daily. She no longer taught as often as she did before but still went every other fortnight or so.

“Yes I do, they’re half-peregryn, right?” Tamlin said aloud, giving Feyre an anchor, an offering back into the real world and away from the corners of her mind.

“They are,” Feyre murmured.

His offer taken, Tamlin used it as an opportunity to take and set aside the painting. He pulled her into his arms as he slowly bid her to sit down with him. Her legs in his lap and head on his shoulder, he waited, slowly brushing her hair with one hand, letting her take her time to keep talking.

“Last month, they came with a child,” Feyre whispered, “their child. And I was hit so hard with this longing , my eyes watered.” Tamlin could imagine it, Aria’s child, Feyre’s sudden at her lack of one, like he was there — Feyre’s magic must not have fully rescinded yet.

At the risk of sounding idiotic, Tamlin asked, “Do you want one? A child that is.” Children, by the looks of it, his mind supplied unhelpfully.

A small nod, and then, “Do you?”

It saddened Tamlin that he could not answer immediately, this request of hers was not one he could fulfill with no hesitation. Tamlin hadn’t the faintest idea on how to raise children, and the only inkling of knowledge being “don’t make them feel unworthy of living�� didn’t inspire confidence.

Through the small link between their minds that Feyre still hadn’t severed, Tamlin felt her hopes lowering. He’d been quiet too long.

“I don’t not want them,” he said, then winced. That was as reassuring as a no. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“New parents usually don’t. It’s always their first time.” She had a point there, and because she knew the first fear that would come to him, she said, “You’d never be like him, you know. Your father.”

“You’re sure?”

She raised her head and turned to face him, eyes holding such emotion he was tempted to ask why she thought of him deserving of such devotion. “I’m sure.”

She shifted to fully sit over his lap, arms coming around to hug him, head back on his shoulder.

“Can I think about it?” he asked.

Feyre nodded vigorously. “It’s only fair, I’ve had a month.”

Tamlin gazed around the clearing, his stallion still tied to a tree and Feyre’s mare lying down in its shade. The sun had set fully, the moon slowly on the rise to take its place. He wrapped his arms around his lady and breathed her in.

“I love you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Thorns and all.”

[fcntasmas]

every which way

fandom: 9-1-1 pairing: buck/eddie chapters: 1/1 words: 3.7k rating: teen & up notes: for @l1wolf2588 who asked for fluff and firefam shenanigans and who instead got. whatever this is i'm so sorry

Buck gets a little overzealous planning Christopher's eleventh birthday party. Eddie adores him.

--

or; buck + a clipboard + a crisis = eddie wanting to kiss him senseless

[read on ao3]

[kerizaret]

Ougghh I hate learning vocab 😔😔😔

[on-leatheredwings]

me once writing more than i need to becomes illegal

[blondiest]

i know i’m gonna lose you (but god, i don’t want to)

rating: E | category: F/F | chapters: 1/1 | words: 3.5k

a companion piece to it’s you and me, that’s my whole world

Near’s bedroom— her tidy little suite in her untidy little makeshift headquarters in a high-rise hotel in Tokyo— is lit only by the shine of the city and the glow of the moon. Because the moon is full and because the city is bright, Mello can see her perfectly. Every little hair on her arms and legs catch the light as she sheds her soft, simple bra. The only thing Mello has taken off so far are her gloves. ---- In which Mello rings in 2010 with some good old-fashioned lesbian sex and a minor emotional crisis.

[anony-man]

A little (lol) Texaid drabble written for a good friend in celebration of her and her partner’s wedding anniversary. Hope you enjoy, @siberat!

Given both their respective places in the world, it seemed unnatural to have spent almost an entire day doing what most would consider normal activities. Usually, when First Aid got the chance to sneak off and spend a little one-on-one with Vortex, their time was occupied with quick, feverish touches behind thin, closed doors and wary glances cast around the room once they’d both settled in for some sleepy snuggles. Today, however, things were different—much different.

The start of the weekend hadn’t exactly been abnormal, at least. A private ping from the Combaticon coincided almost immediately with the end of his shift, and First Aid was far from surprised to find that Vortex had requested he come over for the night… and the morning. What had surprised him was that when they woke up the next day, Vortex seemed far more affectionate and doting than he usually did, but without an apparent reason.

Sure, First Aid thought, Vortex tended to go through phases of being affectionate and obsessive then distant and cold, but something seemed different this time around. He tried his very best to determine just what the reason could be, but Vortex’s vague behavior didn’t help much. His uncharacteristic suggestions of pleasant, domestic plans to spend the day and strangely tender shows of affection were also rather confusing, but as the hours passed, First Aid eventually just decided to roll with it. He was enjoying himself, after all.

The day had been a pleasant one, though First Aid was a little surprised at the things Vortex had suggested they do together. A walk through one of Cybertron’s prettier cities had come to a rather sudden halt after Vortex announced they had an appointment booked for a full-body wax job and tune-up. It was a little strange, First Aid had thought at the time, but stepping through the shop’s doors and smelling the soothing scents of high-quality waxes and other earth-inspired fragrances had instantly put his wandering mind to rest. One hour-long session later, and First Aid was feeling more refreshed than he had felt in years.

Following the appointment had been a trip to one of First Aid’s favorite restaurants, which was a bit of a surprise to him. As far as he knew, Vortex never cared much for the dishes inspired by earth culture and human fuel, but First Aid had been overjoyed to get the chance to sit down and indulge in some of his favorite foods and sweets, all while Vortex sat across the table from him, sipping at a glass of engex and smiling every time First Aid gushed over the addictive flavors of his meal’s next course.

Now, having finished their walk through the town, a visit to the wax shop, and a rather delicious dinner, they were sitting outside, a comfortable silence filling the air between them. Vortex’s seemingly well-organized and long-planned adventures for the day had landed them out on a park bench in the center of one of Cybertron’s prettier cities, their comfortable seat overlooking a span of galaxies beyond the atmosphere.

First Aid, for his part, was a little unsure about being ntimate in such a public setting, but Vortex hadn’t hesitated to stretch an arm over the back of the bench in a successful maneuver to pull First Aid’s frame flush against his own. After a moment of stiff silence and a small tilt of his helm to catch a glimpse of the arm that had so comfortably rested over his shoulders, First Aid gave in, allowing his frame to melt into Vortex’s side. The act earned a satisfied sound from Vortex, and First Aid couldn’t suppress the smile that split his face as Vortex leaned in and placed a quick kiss to the top of his helm.

The overly soft affection was strange and out of character for him, most certainly, but First Aid found himself enjoying it far too much to question Vortex’s motives.

“Been a good day, yeah?” Vortex eventually said, breaking the silence First Aid had just grown accustomed to.

“Yeah,” he quickly agreed. “Yeah, it has been... but what’s with all the fancy outings? I mean, usually we just crash at your place and call it good. Did you plan on doing such extravagant stuff, or—“

“Oh my god,” Vortex said, cutting him off with a dramatic sigh. “You really don’t remember?”

The once comfortable mood suddenly felt rather sour, and though he couldn’t hear any actual resentment in Vortex’s tone, First Aid still pulled away. A glimpse of Vortex’s expression told him the Combaticon was less upset and more amused, however, despite what his tone might have suggested. Of course, this only confused him further, and if Vortex wasn’t going to give him the context he was looking for, First Aid supposed he’d just have to figure it out for himself.

“Remember what?” He asked, sounding nearly as exasperated as Vortex pretended to feel. When the Decepticon refused to stop pouting over the loss of physical contact, First Aid huffed and settled back against his side. “Is it supposed to be a holiday or something? Because… I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I’d remember if something important was happening today.”

Vortex shifted against his side, struggling to find another position nearly as comfortable as the one he’d first settled into. The silence seemed to be his way of avoiding the question entirely, so First Aid pressed a little more.

“Hey,” he said, pulling back once more. “I’m serious, ‘Tex. What is it? What did I forgot?”

Sheepish wasn’t a word First Aid would have ever imagined using to describe Vortex, but the way he sat there, plating flared and faceplates flushed as he scratched at his neck made him rethink the decision. First Aid was almost afraid he’d have to keep pushing for an explanation when Vortex finally spoke up.

“It’s really not a big deal,” he said, his frame lifting in a full-bodied shrug that somehow encompassed all of his obvious discomfort at once. “I just… I dunno, thought it might be fun to try out one of those stupid human things you seem to like so much.”

“And that would be…?” First Aid said, leaning in.

“You know,” Vortex shrugged again. When First Aid didn’t respond, apparently not knowing, he huffed and said, “relationships and stuff. Like, when two humans are together for a while or whatever, they sort of… I dunno, celebrate it or something.”

It took a moment for First Aid’s mind to process the implications, but when it finally struck him, he was almost surprised to realize how much time had passed since he and Vortex had started… well, fraternizing. He couldn’t quite remember the exact date, but he was fairly certain Vortex’s calculations were right, and that they had unofficially been “together” for close to a year at that point.

It was a complicated thing to think about, but the look of uncertainty that had molded itself to Vortex’s expression distracted First Aid from the process. He gave his unofficial (or official, now that… now that they were celebrating) partner a warm smile and cooed, reaching up to cup Vortex’s face in his servos.

“You know,” he teased, leaning in close until their forehelms touched, “for a Decepticon, you tend to be awfully romantic.”

“Hope that ain’t a problem,” Vortex whispered back, his voice soft against First Aid’s cheek.

“Not at all,” First Aid whispered right back. “Not in the slightest.”

Apparently that was all the assurance Vortex needed, as the next thing First Aid knew, he was being touched right back. Vortex was on him in and instant, frame blocking the world from his sight as he crawled up into First Aid’s lap and slunk a servo around to hold his helm in place. It was unnerving, a little threatening, almost scary—however, it was also romantic, in Vortex’s sweet, sinister way.

When Vortex’s fingers slipped under his chin and lifted his helm, First Aid obliged, meeting him halfway for a quick, gentle kiss.

“Happy unofficial anniversary?” First Aid asked with a giggle, reaching up to intertwine his fingers with Vortex’s.

“Yeah,” Vortex said, already eyeing First Aid up again as he readied himself for another kiss. He leaned back in, slower this time, and between the gentle kisses they shared and the soft, assuring squeezes of each other’s servos, he added, “something like that.”